


You Keep Me Right

by swishydetective



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Deviates From Canon, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Fluff and Smut, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, References to Drugs, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Three Garridebs Moment, set after s4e1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-09-27 23:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10057049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swishydetective/pseuds/swishydetective
Summary: After Mary's death, John and Sherlock's relationship has basically stopped existing. They both seem impossibly lonely and neither of them wants to go see the other, in fear of hurting them more.A strange case will bring the duo to back together. Things will spiral out of controls in many ways, forcing the consulting detective and the army doctor to realize that the way they see each other is permanently changed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ******  
> Hello!
> 
> This is my first real attempt at fanfic-posting and I'm excited and a wee bit anxious. I hope you find this fic interesting, and I don't really know how often I'll post this, since I'm still at school. I'll try to update this as much as possible. 
> 
> Also, English is not my first language so if you ever find mistakes, weird sentences or whatever, do tell me nicely so I can correct myself :) 
> 
> These two dorks made me quite sad after s4, so this is to make me feel better (and I hope it makes YOU feel better as well) 
> 
> Enjoy,
> 
> Chloe xxoxo  
> ******

It was a rainy December morning and Sherlock was sprawled on the floor of 221 B Baker Street, his eyes red-rimmed, his curls undone and his silk robe hanging low on his frail shoulders. His eyes were fixed on the mantel of the fireplace, where a knife was holding a note in place. John’s note. Terrified of what was inside, the detective hadn’t opened it. Molly’s words were playing over and over in his mind, dancing in front of his eyes.

 

"Anyone but you. Anyone."

 

Mrs. Hudson’s little cough brought him back to reality. He lazily turned his head to look at her, his drugged body wanting him to go to sleep.

 

"Oh, Sherlock… Why don’t you open that note, dear? You’ve been sulking about it for months now… At least you’ll stop wondering, and you can move on…"

"I don’t sulk."

 

The poor man sighed and turned his back on the landlady, not in the mood to listen to her, or to anyone for that matter. Mrs.Hudson left the tea she had brought up on the table and left him alone. Sherlock sat up, forcing himself to have some of the food on the tray, since he hadn’t been eating in at least two days. He took a few biscuits, drank some tea and his mind wandered back to the note.

He looked across from him, John’s empty chair mocking him. He felt like a coward, in that moment, but he knew that he couldn’t handle another heartbreak. The wedding had been bad enough, but apparently his life just had to be a series of heartbreaking moments. Just when his and John’s relationship had gotten stronger, Mary had died. John had put the blame on Sherlock, and he had never felt more rejected in his life. The man he _loved_ , had told him he wanted nothing to do with him anymore. So many times, Sherlock had felt like telling him why he was « like that ». When Mary had left, they had gotten so close, it felt as if they were back to the days before Sherlock had faked his death. He remembered one evening in particular…

 

_The two of them were sitting in their respective chairs, Rosie was upstairs, in what used to be John’s bedroom, sleeping soundly. John had a scotch in hand, and he had opened a bottle of white wine._

 

_"You know, sometimes I just want to stop looking for her," had said John, out of the blue._

 

_This had taken Sherlock by surprise, and it must have shown on his face because the doctor had laughed. A dry, short, unamused laughter._

 

_— Why are we doing this? Why are you doing this? You of all people should be happy that she’s gone. She shot you for Christ’s sake._

_— You know why I’m doing this. You must know by now._

 

_John had looked up from his glass, and stared at Sherlock for a long moment. His features softened. His gaze fell down after what seemed like an eternity, the faintest of smiles on his lips._

 

_— I guess I do._

 

_The two men put their glasses away. Something in the air had changed. A familiar tension, a known silence. Sherlock could feel all the words unsaid. He shifted to the edge of his seat, his gaze on his knees. In moments like these, the detective felt hopeful. He felt as if, maybe, just maybe, he read the signs right and John was in love with him too. Just as Sherlock was about to make up an excuse to leave the room, John had uttered his name. His voice had sounded so vulnerable, so soft, that Sherlock had had to look up. Their eyes locked. They were impossibly close, even for them. Sherlock lost himself in the deep blue eyes of the army doctor, waiting for the rest of his sentence, but it never came. Instead, John’s eyes fell to Sherlock’s mouth (what?) and the older man licked his lips. Sherlock’s heartbeat was faster than ever. This is it, he thought. He nodded ever so slightly and he swore John was about to kiss him. Until Rosie started to cry loudly, startling them both. And just like that, the moment was gone._

 

_"Daddy’s coming Rosie," John had said, looking (sadly?) in Sherlock’s general direction before going upstairs._

Sherlock felt a sting in his eyes and blinked rapidly to get rid of any tears trying to make their way down his cheeks. He looked back to the mantel and took a deep breath. His legs moved on their own and his trembling hands pulled the pocket knife out of the wood. With one swift move, he opened the note. His gaze fell to the few words written in John’s handwriting and he stopped breathing for a second. The ink had smudged in many places, meaning John was probably pressing too hard on the pen he had used. The round letters were familiar and comforting, even if the words they spelled were not so much. Sherlock’s hands were shaking and he wasn’t sure if it was from the cocaine or the way he felt about those words.

He turned around slightly, his eyes on John’s chair. He carefully climbed onto it, wrapping his arms around his own chest, holding in his hands what he had left of the man he was in love with. He closed his eyes as he felt tears prickling down his cheeks. His whole body was aching. He was longing for a drug that no dealer could provide him. He sat there for hours, his eyes burning more, if that was possible, and his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. What had he done to deserve this?

***

John looked down at his daughter sleeping in her crib. It had taken everything he had in him to put her to sleep. He felt bad about leaving her with Molly so much, so he had decided a week prior that he would at least do this right. He left the baby’s room quietly and sat down in the living room. The silence in the house was numbing. He kept looking back to his phone, as if anyone was going to call him to take him out of his misery. John had basically told the only person who would have to go to hell.

Here we go again, he thought. His mind always went back to Sherlock, it seemed. He wondered if he ever thought about him these days. Probably not. His phone had stayed awfully quiet. He felt like such a tit for the way he reacted towards him. Sherlock had clearly tried to help him, but his grief and his guilt spat words out of his mouth before he could stop them. The anger he had felt that day had scared him. The only other time he had felt that level of rage was the night he had found out about Mary’s true identity and what she had done to Sherlock.

 _Sherlock_. John felt a pang in his chest at the thought of the man getting shot by his wife. A sour taste in his mouth, he remembered everything the detective had done for him in the few months where Mary had left. He had taken so much time to help out, to locate her, to take care of Rosie. He didn’t deserve someone like him in his life. That’s why he wrote him the note. It broke his heart to pick up the pen and write those 9 words. He felt even more like a dick to ask Molly to give it to him but he was a coward, so that was what he did.

He got up and found the bottle of bourbon he left in the built-in. He opened it and poured himself a glass. He brought it to his lips but left it there. The smell of the rich alcohol called for him. The relief of the burn would feel good right now. The thought of Rosie in her room was stopping him. He grunted and put the glass down, closing his eyes. She was the only person he had left. He should at least be there for her. He felt impossibly alone right now. He needed a sign, something that would tell him what to do. Just as John finished that thought, there was a soft knock on the door.

His brows furrowed as he walked towards the door. Through the opaque glass door, he could see a tall shadow. His heart hammered in his chest. He quickly took the last few steps and unlocked the door. He took a moment and opened the door in one swift movement. He felt his smile falter as he realized the man at the door wasn’t Sherlock.

The stranger had dark green eyes and his lips were full. His smile dug dimples in his cheeks and he was looking at John expectantly. His brown hair was unkept and his black trench coat was dripping from the heavy rain.

 

— Can I help you? John asked, looking him up and down.

— Are you doctor John Watson? he said with an american accent.

— Who’s asking?

— My name’s Nathan Garrideb. I heard all about you and Sherlock Holmes and I thought you were the only people who could help me.

 

John looked down at the stranger’s feet. A puddle of water had started to accumulate.

 

— Well you are misinformed, I don’t work with Sherlock Holmes anymore… I don’t know how you got this address, but I can’t help you-

— Please, doctor, I already went over there and no one answered, I don’t know who to turn to. You’re my only hope of seeing him.

 

John bit his cheek. He had closed the door halfway, but something was stopping him from rudely closing completely it in this man’s face. The thought of seeing Sherlock, or even just going back to Baker Street was incredibly tempting. He looked up at Nathan Garrideb once more. The handsome man was looking at him pleadingly. His hair was starting to stick to his forehead, since he had closed his umbrella to talk to John at the door.

 

"Alright, do you have a business card or something so I can contact you if he’s interested in your case? Will you be staying here long?"

 

The stranger’s face lit up as he quickly pulled a card with his name from his coat pocket. He told John he was staying at the Ritz for the next two weeks and to contact him as soon as he could. He firmly shook his hand and went back to the rainy street. John stayed there, business card in hand, getting cold from the brisk December air.

What on earth had he just agreed to?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooooo!
> 
> I'm truly sorry about this incredibly long hiatus, I had lots of things to do at school, but I promise I'll post more in the weeks to come! 
> 
> I hope this chapter satisfies you 
> 
> Chloe xx

Sherlock was playing violin in front of the window. A sad melody was disrupting the quiet of the flat. His bow was quivering on the fine instrument, almost dancing on the the strings. His eyes were closed and his brows were furrowed in concentration, his face almost in a painful grimace. He stopped suddenly, sighing in frustration as a loud shriek resonated from his violin, letting his arms hang loosely by his sides. He moved the curtains as to let some light in for the first time in a while. He had to put a hand to his eyes to shield them from the bright sun outside. He blinked a few times to adjust. 

The warmth felt good. He put the violin back in its case and opened the other drapes. His eyes wandered on the street below. People were happily walking in the sun, trying to enjoy these rare moments before January would come and take them all away. He envied those people, walking out on the streets, being festive, preparing for the holidays. As if he could ever have that… 

Just as he was about to look away from the windows, from the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar figure in between the strangers. His head moved to the side so fast that he hurt his neck. He felt his heart pound in his chest, and his knees were weak. He quickly turned around and started to tidy up the place. He threw the cushions back on the couch, and tried to get rid of any syringes he could find, dumping them in a trashcan near the fireplace. He turned around helplessly in the middle of the room, not knowing where to go next and caught the reflection of himself in the mirror. He almost didn’t recognize himself. His hair was patted down on his forehead, his skin looked like wax and his cheekbones were pointier than ever. His eyes were still red, and he overall looked like he had spent the last months in a ditch. Sherlock ran to the bathroom, his legs wobbly. He splashed water onto his cheeks in an attempt to bring color back to them, to no result. He threw his robe in his room as he tried to quickly change into something decent. 

John opened the half-closed door to 221B, hesitant. Sherlock wasn’t in the living room, but he could hear loud bangs coming from his room. He was unsure if he should disrupt him, seeing as the last time he spoke to him was to tell him to piss off into oblivion. He made a few steps into the flat, feeling strangely unwelcome. He felt as if he didn’t belong there anymore, as if he was unworthy of this place which meant so much to Sherlock. 

A loud noise pushed him further into the flat, worried about his old friend. He ran in Sherlock’s room, to find him on the floor, his trousers half-way up and his shirt unbuttoned. He had clearly fell over trying to put them on too fast. His jaw loosened at the sight of him, sprawled on the floor, half-naked. 

 

‘’Sherlock!’’

‘’John!’’ 

 

The two men were quite flustered to meet again that way. John could feel the flush of his neck as he quickly glanced away so Sherlock could dress himself. The detective was silently cursing himself and his cheeks had never burnt that much. He zipped his trousers up as he got off of the floor. 

 

And there they were, both in Sherlock’s bedroom, awkwardly standing in front of each other, not knowing what to say. John felt the need to explain why he was there but Sherlock cut him off before he could start: 

 

‘’Well… Er- Hello. Do you need anything? I was just about to go out and do the groceries-‘’

‘’Right. Yeah. Wait- no. I’m not here because I need something. I’m here because I wanted to ask if…’’ John had trouble making a sentence, his mind too focused on Sherlock’s opened button-down and all of the feelings that were coming his way now that the detective and him were together again.

‘’Yes?’’

John looked up to Sherlock’s face, trying to ignore whatever was going on in his brain that kept making him look down to his chest. 

‘’There’s this man that came to my place and he… He wanted to see you, it seemed pretty urgent. He left me his card actually…’’ 

Sherlock’s face fell. It was only for an instant, because a cold mask replaced the pain John had seen for a second, from the corner of his eye. He reached into his pocket and found said card, which he handed to the detective. Their fingers brushed ever so slightly while they exchanged the small piece of paper. Their eyes met, neither letting go of the card. 

John realized just how ill the young man looked. He could practically see the little holes in his arms that would explain the state he was in. Sherlock’s eyes were bloodshot and while he was trying to keep a straight face, John noticed something he couldn’t quite define in his icy gaze. He knew that look because he had seen it so many times when his friend looked at him and him only. He thought he had gotten the hang of Sherlock, but that look, he could never figure out. He realized he was still holding the card and let go, coughing awkwardly. 

The detective couldn’t look away from John, who had come here on his own. Who seemed to want to talk again. He was wondering if this was all a dream like the others he had had in the last few months, but the card and the slight touch of John’s fingers against his felt so real… He decided that even his mind couldn’t make this up. 

 

‘’So… Is that the only reason why you came here?’’ said the younger man, looking down at the business card. 

 

‘’I erm- I don’t really know how to say this Sherlock…’’ 

 

‘’I understand. You don’t want to see me, its uh. It’s normal, after what I did.’’

 

John opened his mouth but nothing came out. He had never felt guilt quite like this before. His heart was aching and his stupid brain couldn’t come up with anything at all to make Sherlock understand it wasn’t his fault. 

‘’No!’’ 

Sherlock looked up from his feet. His brows furrowed, both anguish and incomprehension showing on his features. 

‘’This wasn’t- Mary… She didn’t… You couldn’t-. Ok. Listen to me, you fool. This wasn’t… It wasn’t your fault. What could you have possibly done? Just how exactly she threw herself in front of you, I don’t know. But I do know this: she decided it’s what she had to do. So… If I made you feel like… No, I’m sorry I made you feel like it was on you. It wasn’t. Was that clear?’’ 

 

Sherlock nodded, the faintest of smiles on his face. His hand flew to his neck, still sore from the sudden movement from earlier. John immediately stepped closer, a concerned but professional look on his face. 

 

‘’What happened?’’ he asked softly, pushing Sherlock’s hand away. 

 

‘’ ’S’nothing’’ the detective mumbled, embarrassed. 

 

John glared at him, clearly not buying his lie. The younger man sighed and explained what happened, changing only the faintest of details (when and why). The doctor put his hand on Sherlock’s neck, trying to figure out how bad it was. He pressed slightly near the detective’s nape, which made him hiss in pain.

 

‘’Wryneck, that’s what I thought. Just be careful and try not to move it too much and you should be fine by the end of the week.’’ 

 

‘’Thank you.’’

 

‘’No problem. Alright well I should probably go now, I don’t want to bother Mrs. Hudson too long with Rosie… Good luck with that case, not that you need it.’’ 

 

‘’Wait! You’re not going to help me?’’ Sherlock said in a small voice, as John was slowly turning his back on him. 

 

The doctor stood there for a moment, thinking. He looked back at Sherlock, who had a hopeful spark in his eyes. His head was telling him to leave immediately, but his body wouldn’t move. He closed his eyes and sighed, knowing he had lost the fight with his mind.

 

‘’Of course, Sherlock, I’ll help you solve the case.’’


End file.
